


Deer in the Headlights

by kaurakahvi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Asexual Character, Bonding, Consent Issues, Hair-pulling, M/M, Roughhousing, Season/Series 01, Sleeping Together, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26860903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaurakahvi/pseuds/kaurakahvi
Summary: Martin had been...inconvenientfrom the very moment Elias had hired him, but ever after Prentiss had forced him into exile fromhis home, he'd become a downright hazard to Jon's sanity and wellbeing.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 141





	Deer in the Headlights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nappi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nappi/gifts).



> One nice, sunny day Nappi DM'd me a concept, and... throw me a puzzle and I'll be twisting it around until I make something out of it and this is what happens next, I guess. Why am I this way. Interestingly enough this is probably the least dystopian A/B/O universe I've ever written and you can still taste the blood in there. This trope is immensely cursed. Not made any better by the fact that it's canon mirroring. So like, everything's bad by default but I just made it worse - you're welcome.
> 
> In unrelated news I love Tim Stoker who plays such a major role in this fic that he didn't even get himself a character tag. Either way, best boy.

* * *

Martin had been... _inconvenient_ from the very moment Elias had hired him, but ever after Prentiss had forced him into exile from his home, he'd become a downright hazard to Jon's sanity and wellbeing. He didn't know that, of course, beyond what Jon couldn't hide - although it had never been so much as mentioned, they could both still _smell_ each other, and Jon was certain that by now his scent was changing significantly enough for Martin to notice even if he was acting as if he didn't. They were taking more distance to each other, but there wasn't exactly enough space in the Institute to separate them completely, and even then, whenever Martin had been in the room Jon would know the second he entered it, and that was that for his peace of mind. It was... a mess. _Jon_ was a mess. He'd never been this close to someone of... of _Martin's type_ for this long before. He'd avoided it to his best ability, and had, in fact, had remarkable success in doing so ever since his childhood - it was a refined art, a _precaution_ rather than anything, to prevent exactly what was happening to him now.

He had other things to worry about. Prentiss for one, yes, but also his everyday work and the life he was not living on the side of it all. He did not need to be choking for breath every living moment he spent in the archives. He didn't need to be surrounded, enveloped in Martin's scent the second he came in in the morning, and then trying to act as if he couldn't smell it on his clothes when he left for home after work. It was only ever made worse by the way Martin averted his gaze the second Jon would enter the breakroom for a cup of tea or a glass of water, making it all but evident that he couldn't escape Jon any more than Jon could escape him. Annoyingly enough, Tim wasn't having any of these issues. He'd continued being his usual self since Martin had moved in, and Jon couldn't help but wonder if it was because of the God knew how many relationships he was involved with inside and outside of his working hours; he wasn't going to ask. And Sasha, well, Sasha was oblivious enough as the sole remaining neutral party in the archives, involved only through whatever Tim would inevitably be letting her in on. Jon knew he'd been mentioned. There were times he'd walk into a room and Tim would fall suspiciously quiet yet retain that devilish grin on his face that told Jon that his arrival had only managed to emphasis whatever message had just been delivered prior to it, but Sasha wasn't letting him in on how much she really knew, and Jon had decided not to ask for clarification.

So they gossiped. Good for them. They didn't know how bad it really was. If Jon had been anybody else, maybe he would have gone along with it. It was clear that Martin was... _compatible_ with him. It was clear, too, that he was _open_ to Jon - Jon hadn't missed the signs, the way he got clumsier in his company, the way he startled when Jon came too close. He was holding back just as much as Jon was, perhaps hoping to keep his job that he should have never been hired for in the first place. What had Elias been thinking? Jon had chosen his assistants carefully, making sure they would play nice with his type in turn, and that biological impulses would be the least of their worries. And then Elias had hired Martin, whose _type_ was as opposite to Jon's as they came; it was clear from the beginning it wouldn't end well. And yet Jon had let him stay, despite that and despite the awful start he'd had coming in, like he was hoping the problem would go away. It hadn't gone away. 

He'd never felt that way about anybody else. Nobody's scent quite caught him like Martin's did. It was warm and earthy like worn leather left out in the sun, a distinctively pleasant smell that had Jon stopping in his tracks when it came on too strong. When he was too close to the man for too long, he got dizzy, so dizzy he couldn't think straight or at all - work was impossible, and the only thing he could really focus on was losing himself in a statement in the quiet of the archives, as it often felt like one of them would simply take him away from there entirely to someplace else, someplace darker where Martin's scent couldn't reach him. And Martin didn't quite have a _presence_ : he was one of the alphas who faded into the background and didn't seek the spotlight, who looked like he wouldn't give competition to someone else coming in to take what they thought was rightfully theirs, and maybe he'd spent his life getting kicked around about as much as Jon had - Jon hadn't asked him and didn't intend to any more than he intended to ask if Sasha was aware of the undeniable tension between them. They didn't _talk_ about that. In fact, they pretended in vain that there was no issue whatsoever, that Martin's presence in the archives didn't bring with it the outside implications and dynamics, when everyone could see and definitely thought the same thing plain as day. Martin was what he was, and next to him Jon was a _breeder_ , something that Martin could have _taken_ if he got too close. 

Still, Jon hadn't thought much about his decision when Martin had given his statement about the infestation. The fear in his voice was real and he gave no sign whatsoever that this was a ploy to make things more difficult at work - he was afraid and that was that. Of course Jon had told him about the room in the back. Of course he'd offered it to him. It hadn't even been a question but rather an obvious solution, a no-brainer that left his mouth without much hesitation and even less further consideration. He hadn't been thinking of himself then. He'd been thinking of the statement and, for the time being, he'd been caught somewhere between the world where Martin had lived for weeks trapped inside his flat eating canned peaches for lunch and the world where his head was positively swimming with Martin's presence right there in front of him. Yes, stay in the archives. Surely nothing could go wrong. Surely it wouldn't trigger the one process that Jon had avoided his whole life - the inevitable _change_ in his very biology that came with the presence of a suitable, unbonded mate.

It was like hitting puberty all over again except somehow much, much worse, or else Jon had forgotten what it had been like to be 13 and present for the first time. His skin was sensitive, his body temperature constantly half a degree higher than it should have been, leaving him shivering and hot to touch like a sickness had come over him and just wouldn't lift. And really, that's what it felt like; a sickness that was brewing within him that left him gasping for air and struggling for a coherent thought. No matter how much he avoided thinking it he was starting to become afraid of leaving his house and walking the streets. Anyone could smell this coming on him, bonded or unbonded. And he was so _alone_ with it. He'd never noticed how many empty streets London had late in the evening when he left work to sleep. How many opportunities for him to vanish unnoticed, like happened to so many others every year. There wouldn't be a statement made about that. Nothing supernatural about it. Just someone starved enough to tear him apart for the way he was signaling himself to the world now. All because of Martin, and he couldn't even blame him; Martin had avoided this as much as he had. He seemed like a good man. He'd always seemed... kind and gentle, caring; he was careful with boundaries, even Jon's or perhaps _especially_ Jon's, and kept his distance to the others as if constantly aware of how different he was to them. He lacked the cockiness and entitlement of most of his type, even now when Jon's entire biology was betraying him in favour of inviting Martin closer. He hadn't taken advantage of it. He hadn't so much as _tried_.

Jon leaned over the transcript and absently highlighted a sentence that might have been relevant to something he should have cared about or then it wasn't. He highlighted it again and wanted desperately to just close his eyes; it was closing in on ten in the evening and he should have been home already but the last thing he wanted was to go out at night now. He'd noticed too late again - the statements often kept him working overtime without him ever realising how late it had gotten. Tonight was one of those nights, ones where he'd misjudged the time it would take to record one and he'd forgotten himself in the steady flow of words, and then found himself staring out of a darkened window towards another night in London, where he was separated from danger only by the thin veneer of denial at all times.

_'Who's your mate?'_ a drunken man had asked him the night before. ' _Hey, bitch. Who's your mate? Yeah, go home, breeder. Shouldn't be alone this late at night.'_

No, he didn't want to be out there tonight. He'd learned his lesson very fast.

A knock from the corridor stirred him. Jon turned his head slowly towards it, and perhaps it was the thought of _outside_ there that made his heart skip a beat but so it did, leaving him startled and at unease. The knock turned into some quiet cursing - it didn't surprise Jon that it was Martin there, as who else would have been in this late, but the sound of his voice was aggravatingly _soothing_ to him. It also stirred something else within him that he couldn't reason with, a desire that... that bordered _need_ , a need to leave his desk and open the door and follow the voice.

"Sorry, Jon! Are you still in there? Anyway, sorry! Hope you weren't recording," Martin called from behind the door.

Jon sighed, lowering his head again. He tapped his fingertips against the highlighter stuck in his hand and tried to calm his breathing. He had, in fact, been recording even though he was almost certain he'd already turned the recorder off once. He did so again now, leaving himself in silence again. It was becoming all but impossible to focus on the paper in front of him. No matter how much he wanted to get back into it, if only to justify his presence at the archives this late at night, he couldn't quite get a hold of the words anymore. Statements had that effect on him too - sometimes too many was too many, and it felt like he'd exhausted himself somehow. It went deeper than just the exhaustion from speaking too much or working too late, it... felt like he'd drained something from within his _soul_ speaking the words into existence. It felt like each statement took something out of him and left him with knowledge he hadn't asked for. It was tiring, to say at least, and now into it mixed the silently growing... what was that? He'd never felt it before, but now it was his constant companion, growing ever stronger within him especially now that he'd heard Martin speak. 

Maybe he'd hoped he lacked such a basic instinct altogether. He'd had relationships before but none of them with his type opposite - Rachel, later Raphael, had been an omega like him and Georgie was neutral like Sasha. He hadn't sought them out, they'd simply _happened_ to him like love often happened to a person, but along the way he'd learned something about himself, something that was atypical for one of his kind. He hadn't missed anything in those relationships. There was no base desire to sate within him. In fact, he'd always avoided the most physical aspects of a relationship entirely out of sheer distaste for the act; he didn't want it, didn't crave for it, and didn't have a longing for it. It was enough for him to be close, to share company and join two solitudes together: that's how it had often felt like, letting his defenses down to let someone else through. Never once had he wanted more than a hand to hold, a body's warmth beside him at night when he slept. Never once had he _desired_. And now there was Martin, waking up something sharp, something bestial within him. It terrified him. Turned out that he was an omega after all down there somewhere. All it had taken was proximity to his opposite to change what and who he was, had always been; the little things about him that made him the person he was, the person he _knew_. The way he wanted to be close to Martin was... different, primal in a sense he'd never felt in his life, nothing could quite come close to it. He wanted to be deeper than skin deep. He wanted to be inside that skin, crawl into the man's touch like a parasite drinking his blood.

He reached out for his cup of tea and drowned his thoughts into it for a moment. When its bottom collided with the wood of the desk he felt cold again, and a sense of loneliness and craving settled into his body like pins and needles. Maybe he should have thought about it. He considered it for a time: really giving in to the feeling and examining it closer. Maybe it would help make sense of the fear he felt when it came over him. Maybe _knowing_ it wouldn't be so bad after all, especially when he considered its inevitable nature. It was too late to stop it now, Jon had realised this a while earlier. Moving away from Martin and locking himself in his apartment alone at this stage wouldn't stop him from going through the motions: it'd only make him even more isolated and vulnerable. He wasn't sure what he was going to do about it, but in the end it was merely 24 hours of his life that he'd have to worry about it, and then it'd be over, over for the time being at least, and what came after would have to wait until he could think straight again.

The tape recorder's familiar sound stirred him.

"Fine," he sighed, reaching for it and bringing it closer. "You win. I don't know what's wrong with this thing..."

He turned the tape around and cleared his throat before adjusting the paper in front of him, looking through it one more time and deciding it was the only sensible thing he could do now: it was too late to leave, and Martin was occupying the nook he'd usually slept in. Furthermore, the burning in his body wouldn't have let him rest anyway. He might as well make another pot of coffee and work until the morning, perhaps excuse himself then and leave for a nap while it was safe to do so.

"Statement of... Catherine McKelly, regarding the unusual darkness of her new flat in Birmingham. Original statement given October 6th, 1998. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London."

It didn't drive away the restlessness within, and when he ended the statement, the uncomfortable tingling of his skin and body had only turned worse. He almost expected the knock on his door when it came.

"Come in."

Martin cracked the door open just a little.  
"Are you _still_ in?" he asked, although the answer was obvious. "Look, it's - it's almost eleven in the night. Do you ever sleep?"

"What do you want, Martin?"

The door opened just a little bit more, but Martin was hesitating.  
"I was just... going to ask you if you'd like something, like - a cup of tea, or - I was going to have something myself and then go to bed. Still not really used to living at work," he chuckled anxiously, "It's kind of weird and... well, it's weirder when you're _still working_ when I'm trying to sleep."

"Am I keeping you awake?"

"No! I mean, not like... not like I can hear you or anything. It's just, I know you're still here, and that's weird, personally."

Jon was trying his best not to breathe, and he felt like Martin was doing the same - it was downright stupid of him to be there at all now, but at the same time, Jon understood how this play they were acting in required him to remain polite and acknowledge Jon's existence even when it was physically painful for them both for him to do so.

"I was going to get some coffee," he admitted tensely.

"Coffee? It's really late, Jon."

"Not like I can go home at this hour."

Martin blinked. Then his mouth fell open and he let out a small sound of enlightenment.  
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

Jon shook his head.  
"It's not your fault."

It was his fault. In fact, it was almost _entirely_ Martin's fault. So was the growing pressure in the pit of Jon's stomach, like electricity building up between his skin and his gut. He shifted, and realised instantly that it was a mistake; Martin physically recoiled from the door, and although he tried to cover it up with a small laugh, it came out just as tense as Jon's voice before.

"O-kay, I'm just - going to - make some coffee for you, then. That's - great. Bye."

Jon expected him to close the door, but it seemed to be difficult for him. Before he could stop himself he'd gotten up from his seat. What the hell was he thinking? He crossed the room and laid his hand on the door's handle, looking Martin in the eye.

"Go," he said and closed it between them.

"Sorry?" Martin's voice carried from behind there. "Jon, I'm - I'm sorry. God."

"Go make the coffee, Martin. And... thank you."

Jon leaned his forehead to the door. Every inch of his body was echoing his heartbeat pulse by pulse. He couldn't breathe straight and his mind was clouded and his nails were turning against the wood of the door and he clawed at it idly but desperately like an animal trying to get through it. Martin shifted on the other side, but then Jon could hear him tear himself off from where he was standing and his footsteps faded again. He wanted to call him back, but instead he turned around and let his body slide down onto the floor where he pressed his head against his knees. He couldn't recognise his own scent anymore. Being that close... almost close enough to feel Martin's warmth against his own body, it had _broken_ something inside him. He could feel blood flowing through that newly forced opening within him and it was burning him up like liquid lead, turning his body heavy and pliant and so relaxed it felt like he'd been drugged. If he'd felt pain somewhere in his body before it was gone now: the endorphins that flooded into him from merely having been in a shared space with Martin had done away with any discomfort he might have felt before. It was intoxicating like nothing he'd ever felt before. He could feel his heart in his fingers and his toes and behind his eyes somewhere. His ears were ringing quietly.

His legs were shaky when he climbed up from the floor. For a moment he considered locking the door behind him but he didn't - wouldn't - and he wasn't quite sure why. Was it the heat in him that stopped him from exercising the simplest form of precautions? Was it common decency, the fear of hurting Martin's feelings? Did he care about them? Jon chuckled under his breath, the sound hoarse and strained even as he turned to return to his desk. Yes, he cared about Martin's feelings. He cared about Martin. He wasn't sure if Martin knew it, but so it was, buried underneath layers of carefully upheld and openly expressed distaste for his alpha subordinate. It went against the natural order of things and Jon had been dead set on keeping Martin aware of exactly what his place was in the hierarchy here; he liked the control he had over the archives, over his work and over his assistants, and although Elias had seemingly decided to sabotage the peace that Jon had wanted to establish there, one alpha in the team was not going to take that control from him.

Not now, either. And yet... he had not locked the door.

Was that an implicit invitation? Jon couldn't trust himself anymore. He sat down and leaned his elbows to the desk, bowing his head above the statement he'd already read. The words were swimming in his eyes, moving from line to line like he had a high fever, and he focused on his breath for a while as the night grew older. It was half past eleven now. Had he really taken so long with the recording? Or had he been sitting on the floor for much longer than it had felt like? The vague feeling of illness hadn't left his body by the time he could hear Martin's footsteps again. In the silence of the archives at night they were clearer than they would have been during daytime, giving him plenty of opportunity to grow nervous and breathless again. When the knock came, he felt his hair standing on end.

"Yes?" he called.

"I brought you a cup," Martin's voice answered, "I'll just... leave it by the door, alright? Good night, Jon."

Jon nodded to himself, closing his eyes. He could feel the outlines of his fingers drawing into the skin of his forehead.  
"Thank you, Martin. Good night."

A part of him expected to not hear any further footsteps, as if Martin was going to trap him with a cup of coffee, but - no, he was leaving. Once he was gone, Jon pushed himself out of the chair and stumbled over to the door, which he opened just the slightest bit to crouch down and grab the warm mug off the floor. It had Martin's scent all over it, and he hated how much better that made him feel. How _comforted_ it made him feel. He closed the door and crossed the room again. Then he kept crossing it, further and further into the shelves until he hit the section with nothing but cardboard boxes in it, and it was there amongst them that he sat down on the floor with the mug and started drinking from it. The light was yellow and buzzed a little above him as he dipped his hand into an open box and started filing through it, mind full of an idle buzz and gaze foggy even though he was trying his best to read the titles and names of each case his fingertips touched. This box was one of those he'd already deemed worthless, but it didn't matter, he had to read all of them anyway, even if none of them sparked any interest inside him. Ghosts, ghouls, Halloween pranks... he needed to make sure nothing _real_ was misfiled amongst the trash there. He pulled out a few statements and lay them on the floor in front of him, his senses full of Martin's presence that seemed to have imprinted itself on the mug he was holding and sipping from. The coffee was strong and bitter and he wished it did anything to wake him up, but it didn't.

Statement of Mark Lester, subject: graveyard apparition.  
Statement of Kelsey Aar, subject: Halloween party.  
Statement of Jacob Taylor, subject...

Jon's back hit the wall behind him. If he'd just close his eyes for a moment...  
  


* * *

  
"Jon? Jon - wake up. Jesus."

Martin. Jon opened his eyes but all he could feel was his rapid heartbeat and the heat of his skin, the manner in which he felt thirsty and shaky and feverish. He wasn't sure what he expected, but Martin was like a mirror image of him - his cheeks were flushed and his eyes had a strange quality to them, both being darker than Jon was used to seeing them and somehow too wet, too reflective.

"You shouldn't be here," he heard himself say, but his body was throbbing to be closer.  
The words didn't matter. He was certain Martin felt it too. He could _smell_ it on him.  
"Why are you here?"

"I knocked and you didn't answer. I... I don't know. Are you alright? Are you..."

"Am I what?" Jon asked pointedly, but he could hardly follow himself up from where he'd collapsed against the floor.  
It... had to be the statements. He'd read too many. This wasn't the first time it had happened to him, though he'd usually found a more comfortable spot to crash on than the corner of the room. 

For a moment Martin seemed like he was going to answer - like he was doing his best to get the words out - but instead he reached his hand out and touched Jon's shoulder, the brush of the backs of his fingers against Jon's body implicit but _there_ , undeniable and unquestionable. And Jon, similarly, tried to complain; he wanted to tell Martin to move back, stop touching him and leave the room altogether, but what he really said was nothing, and nothing else left his mouth but a little breath as he seemed to simply _give up_ to that touch. Martin's eyes flashed to catch his, and he felt utterly helpless there, collapsed against the wall and shadowed by Martin's shape blocking his only escape. He wanted to laugh. When Martin took a hold of him, hand under each of his elbows and pulling him up, he tensed at first, and then his body followed him even though his mind was empty. Martin was shaking. His whole body was so tense, so visibly strained that it had Jon's breath hitching in his throat. He took a step away from Martin, and the man's grip on him tightened, then dropped off altogether. Jon was free, and he kept moving away, each step weak and uneven like he was drunk, and he aimed for his desk even though it would offer him no protection for what he now knew was inevitable. He was _breaking_ inside. His body was on fire, his every breath full of nothing but Martin, and his mind was full of noise and everything he did was a struggle against the need to just let go and let it happen.

When he leaned his hands to the desk, Martin was there again. His hand landed over Jon's upper back and Jon could hear the shivering breath he drew. And then... then it was a blur: he could feel Martin's grip grow tighter, joined by his other hand that turned Jon around to face him. Their lips met and Jon felt Martin's fingers tighten into a fist in his hair, and he felt like the pins and needles in his body were now exploding into sparks underneath his skin, and he gripped a hold of Martin in return and wanted to cry but it no longer felt like his body was his own - all that mattered to it was contact with the other man, the press and heat and touch and grip of his body against Jon's own. The desk was grinding into Jon's lower back, bruising it; Martin was on him so forcefully that he could feel the wood digging into his bones. He felt like... a doll, like he had no control over himself at all, like Martin was the one moving him and making decisions for him. The sheer abandon of it felt blissful and he hated every moment of it. He didn't want this. Or rather, he didn't want whatever would happen after; this... this wasn't too bad, he thought distantly. The feel of Martin against him wasn't too bad. The bruising wasn't too bad. The pull of his hair wasn't too bad, either; the way Martin was exposing his throat by pulling his head back wasn't too bad.

"I'm sorry," Martin breathed against his jaw, and Jon did nothing although he wanted to nod.  
He could feel Martin's lips trail over the scruff on his cheek and then turn down, lower, until he was kissing his neck instead, and his hold of Jon's hair was now demanding to a degree where it was hurting his scalp but he didn't care. 

His legs gave in and Martin pressed him over the table, his back bending until his spine felt like it was going to break and he gathered the will from somewhere deep within his bones to push with his feet so that he could pull his hips over the edge too. His hands were now somewhere over Martin's back, their touch shaky and implicit only but trailing his body, and he didn't feel bad about that, either; the touch brought him comfort, and in that comfort he had a moment of silence against the powerlessness that was washing over him. When Martin grabbed his arm and pushed it against the desk, throwing over the empty glass and shattering it on the floor, he didn't resist, however. He didn't resist when he had both his hands pinned above his head with Martin's weight resting over his wrists, the bones of which were now bruising against the hard wood underneath. He wanted to laugh. Instead, he arched his back to be just a little bit closer, and then lifted his head to nuzzle it against Martin's, and he breathed him in and tried to convince himself that this was alright - whatever was going to happen to him would only happen this once and then it'd be over.

His sides were exposed from underneath his shirt now. The buttons were partially open although he couldn't recall what had happened to them - had they been opened or broken, he didn't know. Martin's forehead rested in the pit between his neck and shoulder and the man was breathing him in, his whole body shaking just like Jon's was, but perhaps for a different reason; this time, Jon really wanted to ask, but he couldn't. His body was so utterly, powerlessly _pliant_ and loose and _willing_ against the noise in his head that wanted to get him out of there. No, it... did it want that? Did _he_ want that? Not really; he wanted to stay like this. The hold was good, the pressure was good, the feel of Martin's weight over him was good. His scent, his feel... all of it was pleasant, reassuring, comforting. It was the rest - the inevitable - that Jon's mind was resisting. His body, too, he realised as Martin's hand moved under his shirt. Then it stopped there, and against Jon's instinctive expectation, he pulled it back and lifted his head to look at him instead.

Their eyes met for the first time in a while and Martin squinted, that clearness in his eyes now so vivid that Jon could almost see his own image reflecting back at him even in the dim lighting left in the archives.

"You don't want this," Martin breathed out. "It's not - right."

Jon's breath hitched again. He didn't know what to say. Yes, he wanted _this,_ every single cell in his body was dying for it, but he didn't want... didn't want more than this. He wanted to be exactly this way forever, his body pressed into Martin's and his scent all over him and his touch wandering his body, but...

"I'm not going to hurt you. I won't."

Every bone in Jon's body ached when Martin pulled himself back. He was breathing heavily and he looked just as lost as Jon did. Martin had the most painful look on his features; it was confused and anxious and guilty, and Jon wanted to reach out for him but all he could do was shake uncontrollably against the edge of his workdesk. 

"I... I don't get it. How does it feel so... why do we match so well? But you still don't - you don't _want_ me," Martin said.

Jon shook his head.  
"I don't..." he tried to start, but the words died and he swallowed instead.

Was he supposed to want this? Was that how it was _meant_ to go? He wanted to ask Martin. He wanted to know - was he supposed to crave for more, was he supposed to feel as on fire inside as his body felt around him, around that disquiet and fear in his head? What he knew was that he missed Martin's warmth and touch on him, but the dread of inviting it back was too strong. Martin was right. He didn't _want_ him any more than he'd wanted Raphael or Georgie. It was supposed to be different with an alpha, and yet... it wasn't.

Was he just... broken?

Martin chuckled. He shook his head and let out a deep breath, his body relaxing a little before shaking again.  
"Alright, this was a disaster," he said then, giving Jon an apologetic look. "I expect to be fired by tomorrow so I'll just... pack my stuff."

"Martin, wait."

"What? We can't keep this up. I'm not strong enough, Jon. I really want you. I've never felt like this for anybody else. I can't - I can't stay away from you, I can't, I've tried and it just won't get any easier. I already went too far. I need to go."

" _Wait._ "

Martin stopped mid-motion that had looked like he was at least trying his best to leave, but Jon wasn't having it. He slid down from the desk and back on his feet although his left knee buckled right away under his weight and he had to grab a hold of the desk to regain his balance. His heart was still racing but the thought of Martin leaving him now was _killing_ him. It felt like he'd rather have anything else happen, but not that; he couldn't take it.

"I don't - want you to go," he managed to blurt out.

For a second or two Martin seemed to freeze. Then he drew a breath and his head twitched slightly towards the direction of the door, but he caught himself before he could look at it and make the final move to leave.

"Then what the hell do you want?" he asked breathlessly instead, "I feel the way you tense when I come closer. I'm not going to hurt you, Jon. I _won't._ "

"I... don't want you to go. That's - that's it, I don't - I don't want to be alone."

"That's just the heat speaking. You'll feel better when I'm out of here, I promise."

Jon wanted to curse him.  
"I don't care what it is," he spat out instead, "And I'm not having you tell me how I feel."

"Then how _do_ you feel?" Martin asked, his voice desperate. "What do you want, Jon? Stop giving me mixed signals. I - I really can't take it right now."

He was right. It wasn't fair. Jon shook his head slightly and backed up, his hot-and-cold hands seeking support from the desk behind him again. He didn't particularly want to hold himself up for a longer period of time. It didn't seem to be working out too well for him.

"I... I don't know, Martin."

"Good. Great. Then I'm leaving, because if I stay, I'm going to die."

"If you leave, I'm going to die."

"Don't do this to me, Jon. You're not going to die."

They glared at each other. Jon wanted him to come back. He wanted to be pinned down again and he wanted to let go and he wanted it to be all over and he wanted to wake up but... he didn't want to do it alone.

"Then neither will you," he stated stubbornly. "I need - I need to know, Martin, I need to know what I'm supposed to be doing. What do you want from me?"

Martin let out an exasperated sigh.  
"You know exactly what I want from you, except that when I tried to have it, your whole - your _whole_ _body_ was telling me not to do it. I can _smell_ it on you and I'm not a monster, Jon, I know when I need to back off. I'm not going to have you just because you're in heat. I don't know what's - what's wrong with me that you don't want me but it's obvious enough that even though we're compatible it's not going to happen and that's _fine_ , it really is, I just need to get out of here before I..."

"Before you... what?"

"Cry. That's how I feel like. Crying."

Jon let out a huff of disbelief.  
"That's your threat?"

"It's not a threat, Jon, I mean it. This is frustrating."

Jon sighed. He took a moment to gather himself and Martin stood there, his head finally turned away and towards the door but he wasn't exactly looking at it - he was staring at the floor and he did look like he was about to tear up.

"What... am I supposed to do? Tell me, Martin. I've - I've never - been in this situation before."

"I'm not like you. I don't know."

"You know better than I do. At least that's what you've implied this whole time. You know what's supposed to happen and it isn't happening. What's wrong with me?"

Martin returned to look at him, and his expression was one of confusion now.  
"What's wrong with you? I don't - I don't get it, Jon."

"I feel it as much as you do. I'm not going to pretend that I don't. It's been... it's been driving me insane these past few days. I... can't think when I'm around you. But..."

"But? But _what_ , Jon."

Jon shook his head.  
"I don't know."

"God, you're infuriating."

"I don't know, alright?" he snapped, but the anger faded soon enough underneath the throbbing of everything in him. "I don't know. I just - I..."

"What do you want?" Martin asked, his voice still clear with frustration. "You don't want to sleep with me but you don't want me to leave. What is it?"

"I don't want to sleep with _anyone_ , Martin, that's it. That's all. But I want to be close to you. I - I feel like I'll die if I'm not close to you. The end. Are you happy?"

Martin blinked. Whatever he'd expected, that wasn't it.  
"Are you serious?" he asked.

Jon shrugged.  
"Does it sound like a joke to you?" he asked in return.

Martin shook his head.  
"N-no. It doesn't. I... Jon, I don't - so you're - you do want me, but you _don't_ want me."

"Something like that."

God, the last thing Jon wanted was to be talking about it.

"So... what... what do you want from me?"  
This time, Martin's question was genuine - it wasn't frustrated, just confused.

Jon didn't know how to phrase it. He didn't have the words to express the pressure, the hundred thousand blades stuck in his skin, the fever and the shaking, so he stepped forwards instead, closing the distance between them.

"I want to feel you," he said quietly before pressing himself back against Martin, who tensed, feeling as if he was turning into stone against Jon's touch. "Do whatever the hell you wish with me. But don't cross the line. I don't want to be mated. That's... all. I want the rest. I want your touch and - and I want the bond with you. But I don't want... I don't want the sex."

Martin seemed to consider it for a moment, as much as _considering_ anything was possible in the state they were both in. Then he relaxed, and although he was still moving stiffly when he bent down to kiss Jon on the side of his neck, he did so without holding back. Jon let himself lose himself in the touch; his nails dragged over the back of Martin's shirt and he felt immense relief in the touch, even the first gentle feel of Martin's teeth against his neck that heralded the bite that would certainly leave a mark - he needed it all, needed the pain mixed with the comfort of Martin's touch on him.

"If that's what you want," Martin breathed against his ear, "then... I'll formally invite you onto my mattress. It's a little crowded in there and - and a little messy, but I think you'll fit nicely enough."

Jon huffed.  
"Invitation accepted."  
  


* * *

  
It took a while for the fear to fade - the anticipation of something changing, of a grip in the wrong place and the powerlessness to stop it from happening - but Martin was careful not to cross another boundary, unspoken as they were. Jon realised soon enough that it was his responsibility to show him where they went, and even though his body in Martin's hold was as soft and willing as they came, he forced himself to take an ounce of control over it, if only to bring Martin's hands where he wanted them, _needed_ them, until Martin had learned the paths on his own and knew how he liked to be touched. He was so close, his body pressing against Jon's and his warmth enveloping him, and his grip of him was firm whether it lingered over his wrists or tugged at his hair as it had before, or held him by the hips while they kissed, and although at times he got so lost in it Jon wasn't sure if he could call him back again, he always returned to him, always took a step back when he needed to, reminding Jon that he wasn't on his own, and that Martin was there _with_ him, not just against him.

He'd never been kissed like that in his life. It left his lips raw and his body aching, but every breath and every touch upon his skin made him feel loved so thoroughly he'd never experienced anything like it before. And he gave back to Martin what he could, leaving just about as many marks upon his body as Martin was leaving onto his. It took a long time for the worst pressure to fade within him but he could feel that he'd been changed by it - that something within him had shifted, turned different. His body was beginning to recognise Martin like a part of itself, and he lingered in that feeling, that rush of familiarity whenever Martin was kissing him, touching him or speaking to him, and when they were finally just resting quietly beside one another, Jon's back pressed against Martin's body and Martin's arm firmly around his in turn, he could almost feel himself echoing from him like they had become something together, no longer just two individuals but a whole of something else.

"I didn't know you could do that," Martin spoke into the dark of the room.

"Mm?"

"Bond without... you know."

"It's all just chemicals, Martin. All of it."

"That's a really cynical way of viewing it, Jon."

Jon sighed.  
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"Be a little more romantic, please."

"Fine. I'll remember that in the future and offer you my answers with a rose or a box of chocolates instead."

"I hate you."

"Great timing for that," Jon huffed, and Martin let out a tired laugh.

"This is the least romantic thing I've probably ever done," he admitted then, "I'm not going to say I ever imagined us together -"

"You've done that a lot, haven't you?" Jon remarked.

"Anyway, even _if_ I had, I wasn't expecting to be roughhousing you over your desk and then taking you to my _mattress_ in a spare room of my workplace."

Jon sighed.  
"What you just described seems to fit us just fine."

"That's really sad, Jon."

Jon closed his eyes and smiled. His fingertips hurt when he took a hold of Martin's hand and pressed it tighter against his body.  
"I just want to sleep, Martin."

"Fine. We'll fix this later, right?"

He didn't answer. He was too tired - the whole night, all the statements, all this unnecessary excitement had drained him to a point where he wondered sincerely whether he'd be able to take a single step if he'd tried.

"Jon?"

Martin's voice broke the silence at just barely the edges of Jon's consciousness.

"Mm?"

"Do you think you'll love me in the end?"

Jon's grip of Martin's hand tightened for a moment, but he was too far gone to answer. He fell asleep to Martin's breath on the back of his neck and the touch of a kiss pressed into his hair.


End file.
